Page 67 of Old Money

“All I knew was that Patrick wasn’t involved,” she said. “Not that Theo had been. It never even crossed my mind until Patrick himself suggested it.”

I sat there with my mouth open, still catching up. I’d never expected to hear from Barbara again, let alone hear this .

“You mean—”

“He came to me, weeks later,” she continued. “Quite hysterical. He demanded that Theo be questioned—that Greg and I go to the police and insist.”

She scoffed on the other end. A dark, throaty chuckle.

“Did you believe him?” I asked carefully.

She paused again—not a calculating silence, but a thoughtful one I somehow recognized. I pictured her, perched on the couch, one ankle resting on her knee—her Katherine Hepburn pose.

“I could hardly believe my own thoughts back then, Alice. Nothing makes sense when you’ve lost a child.

It’s anarchic.” She cut herself off and took a steadying breath.

“No, I don’t think I believed him. Even if I had, I’d never have trusted it—not enough to speak aloud, let alone to some police officer.

To do that to my sister? To all of you? No.

I’d have needed more than Patrick’s word. ”

At this part I went silent.

“It was selfish,” she added firmly. “Fine. But I’d lost enough.”

I couldn’t understand. But I couldn’t argue either.

“And when I came to you this summer?”

Barbara replied without missing a beat:

“You’d grown up. You had made the decision to do this—come back and get to the bottom of things. Whatever you found there, you’d decide what to do with it.”

I wanted to ask her if she thought I’d made the right decision. But I held my tongue, conscious of the tenuous new link between us—distinct from the one we once had as a child and her aunt. I’m not sure what we are to each other now. But I hope we figure it out.

As for my own status as an aunt, the future is less certain—hopeful would be a stretch.

So far, Jules has not returned my two brief voicemails or the email I sent, nor do I expect her to.

I probably wouldn’t, if it were me. I told her I would continue to reach out every few months, unless she asked me not to.

I have no expectations. I just want her, and the boys, to know I’m here.

I’m still family, if they want me to be.

I know Theo would want that. It’s the one thing he’s asked of me.

A week after his surrender, I got a call from the front-desk clerk at the Alcott, alerting me to an envelope that had arrived for me in their mail.

It looked “official,” he said—clearly, a Briar’s Green euphemism, though I couldn’t translate it until I picked it up and saw the bright-red stamp on the front: “Inspected and mailed from the Lower Hudson Detention Center.” I’d quietly thanked the stone-faced clerk, and waited until I was back in the car to open it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, with a short, tidy note typed at the top:

Don’t worry about me. You did everything right. You’re going to be fine. This is a chapter. It’s not your whole book. Would you remember that? And, if I may, would you please remind my children every now and then? It’s not their book either.

The response came to me instantly—a snippy, adolescent voice in my head: God, Theo, obviously.

Like you even have to ask. The little reflex of annoyance passed through me like a chill.

I cried in the parking lot for a while, then put the letter back in the envelope and left.

I doubt I’ll hear from him again, unless I write back myself.

I don’t think I will. Still, it’s good to know I’ve got the address.

I didn’t expect to hear from Susannah either—and was astonished to wake up to a lengthy text from her, three days ago.

She and Patrick had reportedly canceled their honeymoon when the news broke, and have been tucked away on his family’s Long Island property.

They’ll be returning next week, according to her message.

She wanted to write before things got too “complicated.”

The lawyers say no contact, so I’m trusting you’ll keep this private. So is P.

All I really want to say is that I didn’t know.

I thought it was gossip. I overheard a lot of club gossip when I was growing up.

My parents heard things. Sometimes they saw things.

One night I heard them talking about something my dad had seen in the men’s locker room.

I was terrified that dad might lose his job, so I never repeated it, even to you.

But I had reason to believe that Patrick was with someone else when Caitlin died.

Patrick confirmed my suspicions himself, shortly after we started dating. I asked him directly, and he told me everything. I knew about the affair. So yes, I was taken aback when you told me he’d called her. But not for the reasons you thought.

I confronted him about that phone call too, by the way, and he was completely honest. That’s the kind of man he is, whatever you believe.

He owns his mistakes and atones for the harm he’s done—and yes, he’s done his share.

My husband is not perfect, and neither am I.

But we don’t keep secrets from each other.

He knows I’m writing you this message, and he’s pissed about it.

I can live with that. I cannot live with secrets anymore.

I’ve read the text a dozen times, but haven’t yet replied.

The more I think about it, the less I have to say.

There’s nothing left to argue over, and all the questions I could ask seem unimportant now.

Why muddy the waters further, when I could just walk away?

If those are the final words of our friendship, they’re pretty good.

And it feels right to let her have the last ones.

With her and Patrick and the rest of the village returning after Labor Day, it also feels right to be leaving now.

Once the holiday is past, it’s back to reality—and after my summer hiatus, I have a lot of reality to catch up on.

I have to find a job. I have to plan for the very real likelihood that no one will want to hire me, what with my name attached to a still-unfolding scandal.

I have to crunch the numbers and see how long I can stretch what’s left of my savings before I put my apartment on the market.

And for some reason, I’m oddly excited. It turns out uncertainty isn’t all bad.

It’s scary, not knowing what the future holds.

But at least it’s the future I’m thinking about.

With that in mind, I turn off the car and get out. Just one last pit stop, here in the past.

***

Mr. Brody sits bent over his desk, writing in one of his ledger books. He looks up, squinting at me.

“Ms. Wiley?” he says. “You surprised me.”

For once, I realize, it’s actually true.

“I’m on my way home. Back to the city, I mean.” I inch forward, resting my fingertips on the back of the visitor’s chair. “But I was hoping—”

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair. “Please.”

He closes the binder and slides it to the side of the desk, watching with a thin smile as I step around a stack of papers and settle into the chair. Then he nods for me to begin.

If only I knew how.

“The last time I was in here,” I heard myself say, “when you told us what you saw that night on the terrace. Seeing him sneak out and hide in the trees.”

I look up, watching his face as I say the next part.

“When you said that, did you know I was recording you?”

“My dear,” he chuckles. “As I said, I am not omniscient. Merely old.”

He searches my face, his smile dwindling, but still wide enough to show his teeth. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen them.

“I ask,” I say, my own voice turning stern, “because I’m still trying to understand what you knew. And when.”

Mr. Brody nods and clears his throat—not the phony little ahem , but an actual, human cough.

“Ms. Wiley, I may not have told you the whole truth, but I have never told you a deliberate lie,” he says, his voice light and clear. “A small distinction, granted, but as you and I both know, it’s the little things that make the difference.”

I look at him. I should’ve just left.

“What I mean, Alice, is that I made my own mistakes that night,” he says more quietly. “And I had my own uncertainties about who I saw and when.”

I think of the incident report—its glaring lack of specificity. No names, no physical descriptions.

I told you I saw Patrick Yates , he’d said. And I did, among others . Others. More than one.

“They were thick as thieves, those two—always together, always up to something,” Brody says. “I was none too pleased about Jamie working in the cloakroom that night, knowing your brother would be at the party. On top of everything else, I’d have to keep track of them too.”

I can see it in my memory: Brody, always looming in the near distance, his glare always pointed in our direction. But we were used to those disdainful looks at the club. We stuck out like sore thumbs in our borrowed shoes and clothes that never fit right.

I look up, something clicking.

“The suits?” I ask, thinking aloud.

I see Jamie in his father’s jacket—he’d stuck out too that night.

“Well, no,” Brody says, nodding his head sideways. “Not that alone. All the young men wore those baggy suits back then—dreadful fad. But yes, I take your point. One can always tell.”

He averts his gaze, and I feel my cheeks heat up.

Of course it wasn’t just our clothes. It was our haircuts and our names and the stench of our self-consciousness.

One could tell just from the way we carried ourselves.

One could spot an outsider from a mile away.

And standing on the terrace that night, Brody was much closer than a mile.

I look at Brody. He looks back, his face heavy with despair.

“I didn’t know which one of them it was.”